


You Were the Dark and I Was the Light

by crazyparakiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-02 02:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5231234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Scorpius is a canvas dipped in black--an unchangeable vortex sucking in all the colours slathered upon him. Corrupting them with his gloom, slowly converting them to the same shade of ebony that fills his soul. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Were the Dark and I Was the Light

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little different for me. I decided to play with redundancy and no dialogue. Along with my usual levels of ridiculous prose and fragmented sentences. Hope that doesn’t scare you more than the fic! No regrets! XD

Albus is music. The song of a sparrow in morning, a babbling brook, the whistle of wind, and the near silent roar of the spinning earth. He is the cry of a new birth, and the opus of creation. Scorpius knows this--he’s intimate with the glaring differences between them. Where Albus creates the happy sounds that give life to smiles, Scorpius writes the dirges of death that steal human joy. He is the sombre funeral march that pulls pained cries from red bitten lips; an anguish that fills this dark chamber. The sobs he conducts from the pale instrument beneath him--with cold, angry fingers--are his greatest elegy, pulling tears from his grey eyes as he watches Albus release another cry. 

Albus is art. The mix of oils that are slapped on canvas to create a masterpiece. He is the orange of dawn, the green of the earth, the blue of the sky. He is the sparkling silver white of stars across the indigo velvet of midnight. Albus is every colour on the spectrum, every vivid shade. While Scorpius is a canvas dipped in black--an unchangeable vortex sucking in all the colours slathered upon him. Corrupting them with his gloom, slowly converting them to the same shade of ebony that fills his soul. Now, he taints Albus--his long white fingers leaving dark wakes in warm pallid skin. The white accepts his taint--making the colour it’s own and Scorpius marvels, with a pang, at the welcoming way Albus arches to receive the dig of Scorpius’s fingertips. 

Albus is literature. The luring craft of written expression that draws readers into another realm; he is a collection of love sonnets. Secret poetry exchanged by lovers--between passionate kisses--with sounds that are more moan than utterances. He is the shared letters of souls, connecting across land and time--the beautifully created loops of endearment that only a delighted heart can create. He is the printed press of lipstick against parchment, and a seal of promise that holds the scroll closed. Albus is everything one wants in a letter, or any sort of prose. Scorpius is the viaticum; a last communion for a fading soul. He is the final _No, please, not yet_ of a dying man. He is the unremarkable eulogy to the quintessence of corruption; the hypocritical intonation about a life lived in goodness with God fearing tendencies. Now his regrets he prints on Albus’s skin, using sharp teeth in place of a quill and crimson ink that tastes of blood. Albus becomes Scorpius’s dusty, long forgot journals that sit in an equally lost library or unused study. He signs his name, with a swipe of his tongue across Albus’s collarbone, as he finishes his confessions.

Albus is freedom. He is the endless possibilities of life lived to its fullest. The epitome of uninhibited. He is the traveller who has nothing but worn through trainers and a filthy knapsack on his back. The wanderess who smiles as she takes photographs, alone, on an empty bridge while the sun sets low on the horizon. A vagabond who rises when he feels and sleeps when desired; making love in the cold seas, eating sweets for breakfast, indulging in every desire and whim. Scorpius is restriction. He is the oppressive weight of societal obligation. Duty, honor, dignity--the hefty clout of responsibility. He is the boring office worker, toiling away hour after hour in a job he hates with every fibre of his being. He is the tight noose of a tie, choking the life out of joy; stealing the dreams of youth with every tightened centimeter. Scorpius binds Albus now, with searing, restrictive fingers that lace around the pillar of Albus’s throat. Choking what freedom remains from him while hissing that he is imprisoned and free no longer. Albus welcomes the confinement of Scorpius’s hold. Arms open like flightless wings, wrapping around Scorpius as Scorpius drives into him, inviting the cage that is Scorpius’s embrace. It fills him with a mix of pain and rage and something he can’t quite decipher, so Scorpius continues to bind Albus to him. Hoping that cutting off those wings will give Scorpius some peace of mind. 

Albus is love. He is every epic tale of passion. Every toe curling kiss. Every hand held. Every whispered affection. Every vow of forever. He is the magnificence of love; the unfailing love. The unjealous. The unshaken. He is the beginning of devotion; when things are brilliant and new. Scorpius, on the other hand, is the demise of such feelings. He is the tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra, Heathcliff and Cathy, Orpheus and Eurydice. He is the madness, the jealousy, the anguish. The unending torrents of strife. When they grasp at one another, Albus clings with the hope that his love is received and returned. Scorpius tightens his frantic hold with the need to affirm that Albus is _his_. That there is no other in his heart nor his captivating green gaze. His desperation is palpable as he draws Albus closer, climbs into him deeper. Needing to brand Albus as his own. 

Albus is salvation. He looks upon the sinner without judgement; his hand a forgiveness that purges the soul. He is the redemption, an unwavering vow of kindness despite what darkness he gazes upon. He is the assurance of heaven to a demon, and Scorpius is the fiend that laps the promise up like cream. He is the damnation, the darkened, the doomed. Scorpius is the one who leads sin to the weak, claims them for hell, and tortures them until there are no mercies left to beg for--until they exhaust all that they hold within their battered selves. He brings fire and brimstone to Albus. Leaves blackened lines upon his skin where Scorpius’s fingers dig a little too deep. He disgraces Albus, tries, at least, while Albus cups his cheek; accepting all that Scorpius’s malevolence has to offer. His easy consent makes this miscreant weep, and he cries harder when Albus whispers gently against Scorpius’s hair. Magnanimous, even when Scorpius deserves no leniency. 

Albus is ended. He is the last thing Scorpius will ever love. The final piece of his heart’s puzzle, and he is gone. Returned to dust, too early for his time. He is Scorpius’s price--the price he paid to guard his sins. But it isn’t fair. Scorpius is the one who is tainted. He is the unclean. The filth of the world, with dark, possessing thoughts. Thoughts only Albus had loved; he is a being only Albus could adore. So, Scorpius becomes the new beginning. Digging up the earth that rests over Albus’s grave, pulling his beloved free of his final resting place while releasing a delighted scream when he finds him unchanged. He is still pale, still beautiful, still _Albus_. He crosses the line he swore he would never cross, as he lays Albus in their bed. Breathes into him darkness and chaos and sin. Things he’s endeavored to keep from truly corrupting his Albus. Only now, now, he needs them--because any Albus is better than no Albus. Finally, after hours of waiting, hoping, praying, Albus’s eyes blink open. Eerily dull, but still green. He sits up, stilted and unnatural. His skin is frigid and white, too white to be truly alive. Scorpius has one horrifying moment of fear where he believes all is truly lost. Then, Albus’s long fingers lift to brush against his cheek and Scorpius exhales a shaky breath. 

Albus remains Scorpius’s muse. Yet, he is a disjointed, fractured version of the person Scorpius misses. Albus will always be his song. Now, however, the melody is broken. A cracked cadence that falls like crimson rain, dotting the sheet music in disjointed measures; leaving behind a monstrosity of a sound. 

Albus is not the wild canvas of colours that lived in the former Albus’s skin. He is a white canvas, tacky with the feel of coagulated blood. Scorpius doesn’t look for the source of the medium Albus smears across himself; he can’t bring himself to know what wicked delights this Albus takes in the slaying of unsuspecting creatures. 

Albus remains the source of Scorpius’s journal entries; pages once filled with obsessive love becoming passages that lament Scorpius’s own selfish whims. Confessions that he scrawls in angry red lines with shaking fingers. Scorpius throws his quill and ink in frustration, watching as it drips down the wallpaper--reminding him of the sanguine fluid that dripped down Albus’s lips not an hour before. 

This Albus cages Scorpius. Yes, he is still free to his own maddening thoughts and desires, but they grow distant when he is constantly searching to see what Albus might be doing in that moment. Albus who grows hungrier by the hour; his bloodlust consuming, like a flame that Scorpius cannot extinguish. Scorpius watches him, still managing to retain a bit of innocence and charm as he breaks the neck of a small bird; a delighted smile curving the corners of this Albus’s mouth. 

Albus becomes a different form of salvation for Scorpius. Causing Scorpius to reconnect with his humanity as Albus’s body is further distanced from his own. He watches with a growing knot in his stomach as _new_ Albus ingests something that appears human. Closing his eyes, to the sight of Albus’s pink-tinged teeth ripping into flesh, Scorpius sighs. 

His Albus was ended. By Scorpius’s own hand--one cool spring morn--when that Albus grew frightened over the truth of what Scorpius was...what he is, and what he will forever remain. This Albus was born from vile magics that danced through Scorpius’s fingertips. Filling this Albus with the evils of Scorpius’s soul, and this is Scorpius’s price. Taking care of this Albus, loving him as his Albus had loved Scorpius, is Scorpius’s beginning step towards redemption. He forgives this Albus for the sin he’s committing. Scorpius accepts his death, at the hands of this monster he created, with wide welcoming arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to comment here, on [livejournal](http://hp-darkarts.livejournal.com/127612.html), or in both places.


End file.
